Shattering Stone Tablets
by mnemosyne23
Summary: Reed gets drunk, Hoshi gets frustrated, T'Pol gets drooled upon, and someone gets killed. Just another day aboard Enterprise! Challenge response, ReedHoshi.


****  
**TITLE:** Shattering Stone Tablets  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne  
  
**SUMMARY:** Reed gets drunk, Hoshi gets frustrated, T'Pol gets drooled upon, and someone gets killed. Just another day aboard Enterprise!  
**DISCLAIMER:** Not mine! And the ringer I put them through, they're probably glad. LOL!  
**RATING:** R, for language and sensual references.  
**NOTES:**  
I wrote this story ages ago, and I have no idea why I never posted it here. It's been roosting happily at the GORGEOUS Linguistics Database, but I decided to dust it off my hard drive and post it here, too. I've been doing that a lot, lately. LOL! This is only viable up through season two, but it's so AU, it doesn't really matter. LOL!  
  
This is based on an old challenge from the Reed/Sato forum at LD: **"Break all 10 Commandments of writing R/S fic, but keep it an R/S story."** So goes (in essence) the 10 Commandments challenge. Tricky. See the end of the story for an abridged list of the Commandments, as defined by Chrysa. :-D I don't know if this quite fulfills the challenge, but I gave it my darndest try!  
  


* * *

  
  
T'Pol was a good looking woman, when a man was drunk off his ass on tequila with lime and hadn't had a good shag in two years. Malcolm knew he was drunk because he had begun associating the statuesque Vulcan with words such as vivacious and luscious, which even he knew were ridiculous. T'Pol had all the vivacity of a water soluble fiber supplement.  
  
Still, she had those ears and that green tint to her skin, which made her quite exotic, especially to his liquor-addled, repressed-childhood mind. Admittedly, most of the green women he'd met throughout his life had ended up vomiting on his shoes a few seconds after they were introduced, but he'd known T'Pol for two years now, and she hadn't shown any signs of vomiting particularly. At least, not when she was around him, and that had to be a good sign. As for the ears… Well, he'd once dated a woman with eleven toes. He wasn't picky.  
  
Another shot of tequila. Another lick of salt. The world tilted 45 degrees to the left, then righted itself and began dancing in licentious circles around the salt cellar.  
  
Certain he had pumped his veins full of enough liquid courage to fortify a herd of ornery billy goats, he swaggered across the dance floor of the Titan Bar & Grill - hot spot of choice at Jupiter Station - in the direction of the sub-commander, who was currently standing in a corner watching her human crewmates get blasted on extravagant amounts of alien alcohol. He would have cut quite a dashing figure, he thought, if the floor would have just stopped bulging and sinking every time he tried to put his feet down.  
  
For a moment, he toyed with the idea of shooting the hell out of the floor with his phase pistol, then abandoned that idea as needlessly violent, and settled for beating it down with his boot instead.  
  
"STAY DOWN!" he yelled angrily, stomping on the floor. "'Mwalkin!"  
  
"Is there a problem, Lieutenant?"  
  
He looked up quickly, and found himself faced with six T'Pols, each one swimming in remarkably lifelike Technicolor. He was trying to decide just how exactly he could have sex with six wobbly T'Pols, when his vision suddenly cleared and the six Vulcan's coalesced into one seemingly unperturbed science officer.  
  
"S'wha?" he mumbled, jaw hanging slack.  
  
She arched an eyebrow. "I was inquiring as to your state of being," she told him calmly. "You appeared to be attacking some kind of vermin."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Why were you stomping your boot, Lieutenant?"  
  
He grinned, pleased to be faced with a remark he could actually make sense of. "Oh, tha's eashy," he told her. "I's keepin' the floor in plache."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"'Twas buckin' and frellin' round, ya see."  
  
"Intriguing."  
  
"'Sall right," he told her, giving his boot one more good stomp. "'Sdead now."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
The conversation did not seem to be going well. He had a mind like a tack; he could tell these things. Determined to get the interaction back on track - that track being the one that led straight to his bunk - he cocked a hip and grinned at her; a little arrogantly, but she was a Vulcan, so he figured arrogance was a turn on for her, since they all oozed the stuff like hormonal jelly.  
  
"So, Tippy," he started. Ooh, Tippy, yes, very good. Pet names always let a girl know you're interested."How would you like to come back to my room, sip a little tea, and make some bold strides in interspecies relations?"  
  
At least, that was what he intended to say. It came out more like, "Lesh go ta my room an' fook like bunnies."  
  
Then he passed out.  
  
The last thing he remembered before the blackness claimed him was T'Pol's remarkably strong arms catching him as the despicable floor came back to life and started boiling under his feet again. Bugger,was his last thought, and then there was nothing.  
  
-------------------  
  
Hoshi Sato was miffed. No, in fact, she was angry. Furious. Enraged. Irate. Incensed. Seething. Livid. Up in arms. Hopping mad-  
  
Stop. Breathe. Turn off internal thesaurus. That was the one problem with being a linguist - she knew too many words, and it was distracting. Though it was fun being able to call someone a stupid shit head in over two hundred languages.  
  
"Sou fak," she muttered in Serellian, staring at the unconscious man on the biobed. "Tim'ed'ray." Tekkian. "Baka kuso atama." Japanese.  
  
"Having fun, Ensign?"  
  
She looked up as Doctor Phlox - infernally cheerful, as always - virtually scampered back into the room from his office. He had been over the moon with happiness when T'Pol brought Malcolm to Sickbay with news that the armory officer was "highly inebriated," which translated as six sheets to the wind in Vulcan-speak. Intoxicated. Smashed. Trashed. Calling for O'Rourke. Riding the porcelain bus-  
  
She stopped herself again and gave Phlox what she hoped was a withering stare. "I've been given guard duty over an unconscious idiot, Doctor," she told him plainly. "Do I look like I'm enjoying myself?"  
  
"Well you should be!" He beamed at her. "The human body goes through such amazing physiological and psychological changes while under the influence of spirits. Fascinating stuff for study!"  
  
Hoshi had been in that position enough times in college. She didn't need to study it second-hand, especially not when she could be having much more fun doing primary research on the topic. "I don't see why he needs guarding anyway," she complained, propping her elbow on the edge of the biobed and resting her cheek sullenly on her palm. "He's not going anywhere anytime soon. Why do I always get stuck with the stupid Malcolm Duties? First the damn birthday food, now the alcohol poisoning. What next? Change his diapers?"  
  
"I was not aware the lieutenant suffered from lack of bowel control."  
  
"I'm being sarcastic, Doctor."  
  
"Ah, sarcasm. Another brilliant subject for observation."  
  
Hoshi sighed heavily. It was stupid to complain; she hadn't been having much fun on Jupiter Station anyway. All her attempts at flirting had been rebuffed for the usual reasons - the men were either already involved, gay, or, in one particularly strange case, dead. At least Malcolm was alive and breathing, if not much for conversation. The glare off his chest, though, was giving her a headache. "Can we cover that up?" she asked, gesturing vaguely to his torso. "It's like staring into the sun."  
  
"Breathtaking and awe-inspiring?"  
  
"No, blinding. He owes me new retinas."  
  
Phlox chuckled as he tugged Malcolm's sheet up to cover the man's smooth chest. "Fascinating, these mating rituals you humans have. So imaginative! If I didn't know better, I'd think you didn't even know you were doing them."  
  
Hoshi stared at him. "What are you talking about, mating rituals?"  
  
"You wish to mate with the Lieutenant, don't you, Ensign?"  
  
She gagged on her tongue. "NO!"  
  
"Are you entirely sure?"  
  
"YES!"  
  
"Because you are exuding quite a powerful musk."  
  
"No I'm not!"  
  
"You are."  
  
"Not!"  
  
"Are."  
  
"NOT!"  
  
"Ensign, you ARE. It has been driving my poor, dear Percadian Ookle Rats quite mad with lust."  
  
"Well your poor, dear Percadian Ookle Rats can go fuck themselves!"  
  
"They have been, I assure you. Amazingly acrobatic little creatures."  
  
Hoshi groaned with frustration and began pounding her head against the edge of Malcolm's biobed. The day kept getting worse and worse. It left her wishing for a Suliban attack - she really needed to shoot somebody right now.  
  
Her morose head banging was interrupted a minute later by a heavy hand on the back of her head. "Would you mind terribly not doing that, Hoshi?" Malcolm asked, voice thick. "The shaking distracts the fishes something awful, and then they can't keep the car on the road."  
  
-------------------  
  
"I most certainly did not."  
  
"Malcolm, you did. I was there, remember? You started yammering on about how the fish had manhandled-"  
  
"Fish-handled."  
  
"Fish-handled, yes, thank you, fish-handled you into a 1980's era Trans Am and then proceeded to take you on a whirlwind tour of the Mariana Trench, much to your annoyance. You mean to tell me you don't remember ANY of that conversation?"  
  
"Of course not. I would never talk about anything so asinine. Complete rubbish."  
  
Hoshi rolled her eyes as she continued to help him down the corridor from Sickbay to his quarters on B-deck. Phlox had cleared the armory officer to return to his cabin, though the doctor insisted he couldn't go unaided. So Hoshi, being the nearest breathing biped, had been shanghaied into chaperone duty. She had refused point blank to give him a massage, however, especially when Phlox offered her a tub of decon gel to aid in the process. The musk comment had left her feeling off-center, and she didn't want to encourage her equilibrium to tilt any farther by rubbing her gel-slicked hands all over the tactical officer's muscled back. That was just inviting trouble.  
  
Malcolm's arm was wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and he was leaning heavily against her, obviously unsure of his feet. At least he was lucid, which was a vast improvement from when he'd first woken up. Regardless of his protests, the fish conversation HAD taken place, and would constitute the basis for outrageous blackmail sometime in the near future. Hoshi would see to that. He owed it to her for taking care of his hungover ass.  
  
"I'm still not entirely sure why you were standing guard over me," Malcolm was saying, drawing Hoshi out of her thoughts. "I'm not exactly up to snuff."  
  
"Captain Archer seemed to think you needed watching," she told him. "He didn't appear to like the idea of a smashed armory officer running drunk and free all over the ship with access to high power energy weapons. You're trigger happy at the best of times, Malcolm."  
  
"I would like to think he'd trust me to have SOME self control, even under the influence."  
  
"Malcolm, you tried to hook up with T'POL. And not in a roundabout way, either. You asked her flat out for sex. Does that sound like self control to you?"  
  
"Yes, well…" She was pleased to see some color flushing his cheeks. "That was different."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I was drunk at the time."  
  
"And what do you call this?"  
  
"Recovering drunk. There's quite a difference."  
  
"And that is?"  
  
"When you're drunk, your mantra is One more round. When you're Recovering Drunk, your mantra is, I swear, sweet Lord, I'll never, ever do it again. See the difference?"  
  
"Poetic."  
  
"Yes. Besides, I've come to the decision that T'Pol isn't the lust object my alcohol anointed brain had made her out to be."  
  
"And what brought you to that conclusion?"  
  
"For one, there's the smell."  
  
"Smell?"  
  
"Yes. Her smell. She smells… odd."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Just… odd. Like Americans, only minus the bacon."  
  
"Funny."  
  
"But true. Then there's the fact that she's got a grip like a bloody pit bull. I don't fancy hopping into bed with a woman who could easily snap my spine and honestly call it an accident. Imagine what she could do to other, more protruding pieces of anatomy."  
  
He had to still be a little drunk, if he was talking about anatomy. Sober Lt. Malcolm Reed had an upper lip so stiff, bridges could be built with it. "So you don't want to sleep with T'Pol then?"  
  
"Well, I didn't say that. I said I didn't fancy hopping into bed with her. Now, hopping into bed ON TOP of her, that's different. Keep her a bit immobile-"  
  
"We're here!" she cried as they reached his door, cutting him off before his tongue began slurring out precisely what he'd do to the Vulcan if he ever got her into bed. What every guy on the ship saw in Torpedo Bra, she'd never understand.  
  
….  
  
Well, okay, she understood it plenty, but that didn't mean she had to admit it.  
  
"Home sweet hoLY HELL!" Malcolm exclaimed as the door opened, and a furry ball of excitement scrambled around his feet, knocking both him and Hoshi off-balance and sending them tumbling over the threshold into Malcolm's cabin.  
  
"Bloody hell!" Hoshi gasped, winded, as they hit the floor together. "What was that!"  
  
"I don't know, but I think I'd like to kill it, as soon as my head stops pounding and I stop bleeding heavily from the nose."  
  
Groaning, Hoshi rolled onto her back and stared down her body at the woofing bundle of energy that stood near her feet, wagging its tail and just generally being cheerful when he had no right to be.  
  
"It's Porthos," she informed the moaning armory officer beside her. "He must have snuck in here when I came by to get you some clean clothes, and got stuck in here."  
  
"Ah. I suppose he's wagging his tail like he's just fetched us the morning paper, eh?"  
  
"His hindquarters are wiggling, yes."  
  
"He doesn't realize he's set my rehabilitation back by about three years, does he?"  
  
"I don't think so, no."  
  
"Stupid whippet."  
  
"I wouldn't let Jonathan hear you say that."  
  
"You're getting a bruise on your chin where it hit the floor."  
  
"Dumb dog."  
  
Porthos, seemingly unaware of their derision, woofed hopefully and placed his paws on Hoshi's leg, tongue lolling out.  
  
She crumbled. "Oh, come here, boy." She held open her arms and the puppy scampered up her body to be bundled in a hug. It was impossible to stay angry with those brown eyes for long.  
  
"He's got you wrapped around his paw, I see," Malcolm stated flatly.  
  
"Oh, shush. Porthos didn't mean any harm. Did you, Porthos? Here, kiss Uncle Malcolm better." Hoshi held Porthos down near Malcolm's face and the beagle began eagerly licking the tactical officer's cheek.  
  
"Get off!" the lieutenant protested, feebly waving his arm to try and ward off the puppy's kisses.  
  
Hoshi laughed. "Okay, go home to daddy, Porthos," she crooned near the dog's ear, before setting him on the floor. The puppy capered around for a second, then trotted off down the corridor.  
  
Hoshi watched him go, then set about trying to put Malcolm to rights, which was no mien feat. The fall appeared to have robbed him of any and all ability to cooperate with simple instructions, so she ended up more or less dragging him to his bunk. "Sleep it off, Malcolm," she told him firmly, tucking him in tight. "You're going to need some good sleep to figure out how you're ever going to face the rest of the bridge crew again after they find out what you did with T'Pol."  
  
"Thank you, Hoshi. That hadn't occurred to me for at least fifteen seconds. Thank goodness you were here to remind me, or I might have forgotten entirely."  
  
"Can't have that."  
  
"Certainly not." He paused, then frowned. "What's that smell?"  
  
"Smell?" She sniffed, but noticed nothing. "I don't smell anything."  
  
"Are you sure? It's-" sniff "-quite strong. It smells-" snuffle "-something like… musk?"  
  
Hoshi flushed bright red. "It's your imagination," she told him quickly. "Ignore it and go to sleep."  
  
"I'm afraid I can't ignore it, Hoshi. It really is very strong. Porthos didn't take a piss somewhere in here, did he? Because I'll never get that smell out of the carpet if he did."  
  
"Malcolm, it's ALL IN YOUR HEAD," she told him again, holding his shoulders down and trying not to curse. "It certainly isn't anything remotely sexual, so stop thinking like that."  
  
Malcolm gave her a strange look. "I wasn't. Unless you interpreted my Porthos comment as something sexual, in which case I think YOU'RE the one who needs some sleep."  
  
"You're thinking about it sexually now, aren't you?" she accused, trying to stem the edge of panic in her voice.  
  
"Well now that you've mentioned it, yes, perhaps a little."  
  
"Why! I told you it wasn't!"  
  
"Yes, well it's a little like telling someone not to think of the elephant, isn't it? Hey, you. Don't think about an elephant. What's the first thing you do? Think of the bloody elephant. You can't tell someone NOT to think about something sexually and then expect them not to think that very thing."  
  
She glared at him. "Sex fiend."  
  
His eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "I am not!"  
  
"You tried to get into T'Pol's pants earlier tonight, and now you're trying the same tactic on me. Don't try to deny it. I can see you undressing me with your eyes as we speak."  
  
"Hoshi, I assure you-"  
  
"Well don't bother, mister! There's nothing interesting there to see. In fact, let me save you the trouble. Here." She stood up and began methodically stripping off her uniform. "See? Shirt off, so. Boots off, so."  
  
Malcolm was staring in goggle-eyed disbelief, but she ignored him until she was down to nothing more than her skivvies. "There," she said, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at him, daring him to make some smart remark about her chest size. "See? Nothing remotely worth looking at. So you can just pick your mind up out of the gutter, buddy. It's just collecting dust."  
  
They stared at each other for close to ten seconds before she pounced.  
  
-------------------------------  
AUTHOR'S NOTE:  
I won't do it. I absolutely refuse to write bad nookie, for two reasons. One, because Malcolm and Hoshi deserve SO much better. And two, because it's really, really, REALLY hard to write. Instead, let me offer up my Recipe for Bad Smut. CAUTION! Keep this recipe out of the hands of children.  
  
Take ONE poorly contrived plot device. Add TWO poor characterizations. Mix well with OVERUSE of words such as "manhood," "tool," and "juicy pink bits." Pour in ONE CUP of bad dialogue. Season liberally with BAD GRAMMAR. Strain to remove PUNCTUATION. Heat to LUKEWARM.  
  
Add an olive.  
  
Serves 20, but no one will eat it  
  
Now, let's take up AFTER the love scene, which we will characterize as steamy and electric, with an erotic flair of drama. Aaaaand… action!  
-----------------------------------  
  
"Oh…. wow," Hoshi gasped, staring at his ceiling with wide eyes.  
  
"Agreed," Malcolm panted beside her.  
  
"Where did you learn….?"  
  
"That bit with the toes?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"That's for me to know, and you to find out. Frequently."  
  
"Is this going to be like target practice?"  
  
"You could say that, only we'll be naked."  
  
"I can live with that."  
  
"Likewise."  
  
There was a pause, during which the only sound was their mingled breathing.  
  
"So…" Malcolm began after a moment.  
  
"Mmm?" Hoshi murmured in return, giggling a little giddily as she drifted in the afterglow.  
  
"Are you ready to go again?"  
  
Hoshi tilted her head to stare at him with disbelief. "Are… you?"  
  
Malcolm grinned at her. "The mast is up and ready for rigging," he said with a wink, before rolling over to cover her body with his own, only slightly muffling her squeal of delight.  
  
-------------------  
  
THE NEXT MORNING  
  
"Oh, sweet Lord," Malcolm moaned, holding his head as he leaned over the Mess Hall tabletop. "I will never, ever, EVER do that again. Never. EVER. I swear. Just make. The pain. STOP."  
  
"Shhhhh," Hoshi soothed gently, rubbing his back. "Eat up, then you can take your aspirin."  
  
Malcolm eyed his plate of scrambled eggs and dry toast with suspicion. "I think I'm going to be sick."  
  
"You already did plenty of that when you woke up. Now eat. Doctor's orders, remember?"  
  
"Good morning, you two," Doctor Phlox said cheerfully, coming over to hover by their table. "I thought you might be here, and I decided I'd better check on how my patient is coming along. How do you feel, Lieutenant?"  
  
"Like I've been shat out the wrong end of a rhino."  
  
"Splendid. Precisely where your recovery should be at this point."  
  
"I was just telling him he had to eat something before he took his painkillers, Doctor," Hoshi spoke up.  
  
"Very true, Ensign," Phlox agreed sagely. "If you were to take those painkillers on an empty stomach, lieutenant, you may well end up vomiting out your small intestine, and I don't mind telling you, it's a messy business putting those back again!"  
  
Malcolm gave the doctor a withering look. "Tell me, doctor. Why don't you cut out all this middling business and just kill me now?"  
  
"Malcolm," Hoshi chided gently.  
  
"Lieutenant, you know very well I am not permitted to cause harm. It is my oath as a doctor."  
  
"Trust me, you would be doing me a favor."  
  
"I won't."  
  
"Do it."  
  
"No."  
  
"My eyes are pulsing, doctor. PULSING."  
  
"I won't do it."  
  
"What are you, chicken?"  
  
"No, I'm Denobulan. I thought you already knew that."  
  
"Come on then. Kill me."  
  
"No."  
  
"Kill me, kill me, kill me."  
  
"Stop that."  
  
"Put me out of my misery."  
  
"Oh, very well," Phlox said with a sigh, and took a phase pistol from his pocket. "It's for your own good."  
  
And he promptly shot Malcolm dead.  
  
"OH MY GOD! WHAT DID YOU DO!" Hoshi screamed as Malcolm slumped to the side.  
  
"Ah," Phlox said. "This would be sarcasm again, wouldn't it? I really must learn more about that."  
  
-------------------  
  
Hoshi sat up with a little shriek and stared in horror at the clock. It read 2am.  
  
"Hoshi, luv?" She turned quickly towards the groggy voice beside her, and saw Malcolm peering at her through eyes slitted with sleep. "What's wrong?"  
  
Her heartbeat was slowly easing, but it still hadn't calmed entirely. "Just a bad dream," she told him quietly, snuggling down next to his lean body and feeling his arm wrap comfortingly around her waist.  
  
"Mmm? About what?" he murmured drowsily.  
  
"When we first got together."  
  
He chuckled wryly at that. "I'm glad you consider it a nightmare," he teased.  
  
Hoshi laughed softly and stroked his ribs with her fingertips. "That wasn't the bad part," she told him. "It ended differently in my dream. Phlox killed you."  
  
This time, it was Malcolm's turn to laugh. "I'm sure he's wanted to in the past," he said, rubbing her back. "It's certainly FELT that way at times."  
  
She smiled and closed her eyes. "I think I've just had doctors on the brain lately," she murmured, nuzzling his chest. "They're invading my dreams."  
  
"Understandable." She felt one of his hands slide between them to rest on her slightly rounded stomach. "How is Malcolm Junior?"  
  
"Hoshi Junior is doing fine," she said with a grin, and felt him kiss her forehead.  
  
"Does the mother think she can nod off again, or does she need the father to rock her back to sleep?"  
  
"Mmmm," she purred as he slowly pulled her up onto his chest. "Depends on what kind of rocking the father has planned."  
  
"Let's just say, NOT the kind that requires a bassinette."  
  
"Then by all means, rock away."  
  
And they lived happily ever after. T'Pol, it should be noted, never mentioned the drunk incident again, and while rumors flew - as they so often do on starships - she never confirmed or denied anything. Perhaps she wanted to put it behind her. Perhaps she found it embarrassing. Perhaps she didn't want to listen to Trip's jokes on the subject. Or perhaps she knew that rehashing the issue would just cause trouble for the happy couple somewhere down the line. Whatever the case, she let the issue drop, and must have persuaded Archer to do likewise, as no disciplinary action was ever taken. Oddly enough, by ignoring one bit of gossip, she was able to disprove another, particularly nasty rumor that had circled about her since day one. For contrary to popular belief, T'Pol proved she had a heart.  
  
And she didn't seem to mind one bit.**THE END**

* * *

**THE (Largely R/S) COMMANDMENTS**  
  
1) ReedT'Pol does NOT equal Romance  
2) Drooling over the chests of any and all male crewmembers is VERY much approved!  
3) No badmouthing Porthos!  
4) Hoshi is a goddess. Malcolm is a god. Worship them accordingly.  
5) There will be no "getting drunk" of Malcolm. Just… no.  
6) T'Pol does not constitute every man's wet dream.  
7) No whiny Hoshi!  
8 ) NO KILLING OFF OF HOSHI OR MALCOLM! PLEASE DEAR GOD!  
9) Decon gel is like the elixir of the gods - precious and awe-inspiring.  
10) Only good nookie, please. Bad nookie is grounds for expulsion from… well, wherever one happens to be at the time. 


End file.
